


In Love

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 16,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, multiple small works, will add warnings as needed. A place for the plot bunnies to roam. Disclaimed as it ever was: not mine. ***Please note that I have moved the "Practice" chapters to a new work "Practice Makes Perfect."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How It's Done

Setting his newest silk tie aside, Red takes the phone from Dembe, starts answering the inevitable questions.

He's going to be late to meet Liz downstairs for dinner.

But this is a big deal, millions on the line. He glances at the crystal clock on the mantel of his hotel suite fireplace, again and again, as he paces and talks. Sips a glass of expensive scotch.

He told her he would meet her in the lobby bar around 7. It's almost 7:30.

When he finally steps into the crowded, noisy room, Red spots her at the bar almost at once.

Liz has her hair pinned up, and she's wearing a simple, tight black cocktail dress cut low in the front and even lower in the back. Rhinestones glitter at her ears and wrists.

She's drinking a glass of wine and flirting rather obviously with three extremely slim, attractive men around her own age.

Red scans the room, registers the high proportion of males to females drinking and chatting. Gorgeous, elegantly dressed males. Even for this boutique hotel, it's a distracting crowd.

Of course. That TV contest for eligible bachelors. 

He's left Liz alone in a hotel lobby teeming with single, camera-ready, wealthy young men.

Looking down, pretending to brush an imaginary fleck of lint from his simple black evening suit, Red stands watching her from across the room, admiring her flawless skin, the way she giggles as one of the men leans closer.

Now she's blushing.

The taste of expensive scotch in his mouth turns sour on his tongue. Liz looks like she belongs with one of those men, happy and carefree.

Red strokes the slightly curled brim of his hat, grinds his teeth, then heads for the bar.

"Lizzie!" he greets her. "Ready to go out to dinner?"

Braces himself with a witty comeback in case she's changed her mind.

Her eyes widen and Liz gulps at the glass of white wine she just raised to her lips, leaning forward on her bar stool to avoid spilling it.

The two brown-haired men standing to her left at the bar look disappointed, but the blond man on her right, his glass lifted in her direction in an interrupted toast, looks annoyed. 

"Who are you? Her dad?"

He's never seen her eyes change like that, limpid blue to deep, glowing sapphire. Red stops in his tracks, just a few steps from the bar.

The blond man seems unaware of her reaction.

"Tell him he can wait for you to finish your drink," he says to Liz.

Red eyes him up and down, allowing an expression of disdain to spread over his face. 

But Liz is already in motion.

She sets down her wine glass, walks straight up to Red. Shoulders back, a little sway in her walk that tells him that was certainly not her first glass of wine. 

"Hey, Red," she says softly.

Liz stops right in front of him, tilts her face up in what would clearly, with any other woman, be an invitation to a kiss.

Her black dress is so tight it seems to have been sprayed onto her lithe, perfectly toned body. She's visibly not armed tonight.

Red purses his lips, leans back on his heels a little, stares back at her with his best version of indifferent. Despite the lovely tickle of her familiar perfume in his nostrils. She rarely allows him so close, these days.

She goes up on her toes, tilts her head for a moment, sways a little closer.

What is she doing? Teasing him, mocking him?

"Shall we go?" he asks, stepping back from her enticingly parted lips, the laughter in her eyes.

She turns back to the blond man, gives her hips a little swing.

"See, that's how its done. He always makes me beg."

Giving all three men a smug smile, she steps around Red and heads straight for the door.

Red smirks broadly at their crestfallen faces, tips his hat, and follows Liz from the bar.

It's going to be a delicious dinner.


	2. Auction Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, angst, fantasy

Liz rolls back and forth in her uncomfortable motel bed, trying to escape from her troubling thoughts and fall asleep.

The rumor that Red has been captured and put up for auction, to be sold to the highest bidder, has been keeping her awake for hours.

An auction resulting in torture and death. The thought is unbearable.

Liz will never let him know, no matter how well Red thinks he can tell when she's lying, but she's fallen for him. So hard her heart has bruises, so completely she can barely breathe sometimes in his presence. Her only solace is that he finally seems to be backing away a little.

She can't play his games anymore, now that her own feelings are all too real.

It's just a rumor. Red may show up unharmed tomorrow, displaying a supercilious smile, spouting his curious fables.

Rolling onto her belly, Liz tries to imagine a much different auction, a fantasy that perhaps will be enough for her to sleep. Or at least make these wakeful hours bearable. 

The auction room is crowded with wealthy, beautiful women, but Liz has the most money available. She knows in the end she'll be the one to purchase Red. Enjoy the relief and gratitude sure to follow her winning bid.

There's a raised stage in the center of the room. Red is led out fully dressed, outwardly confident, although his eyes dart around the room until they reach her. A single spotlight is trained on him as the room dims.

The auctioneer is an older woman dressed in black leather who looks a great deal like Madeline Pratt. She's extolling Red's virtues, preparing the audience for the bidding.

Red surveys the crowd of women, his nostrils flaring as they shout out increasingly explicit comments. Egging each other on.

Liz stands at the back of the crowd, waiting to rescue him.

She rolls over onto her back in bed, her face flushing even though she's alone.

Ever since she was a little girl, Liz has wanted to be a hero. Longed to rescue the weak and the helpless, right the wrongs of the world.

How has that somehow brought her to this point in her life, living alone in a cheap motel, indulging in a thoroughly unsavory fantasy about a man like Raymond Reddington?

She's imagining him helpless as his clothes are stripped from him piece by piece, the women commenting salaciously as he stares across their heads at her. Willing her to save him.

Liz curls tight onto her side, trying to banish the graphic images that flow unbidden through her mind.

She does want to save Red from himself with all her heart, save him from everything that's gone wrong in his life. Rescue him and hand him a new life filled only with safety and joy and infinite possibilities. Filled, if he wants her, with her love.

Which is beyond ironic, given that one of his most lucrative specialties is providing new lives and second chances, while all she can offer is arrest, imprisonment, and long empty years behind bars.

Liz has no confidence Red's immunity deal will last forever. She's already seen the bureau, her own government, try to renege on it once. That broke something inside her, something that will never be the same. 

All the lessons she's learned lately about trust have been to prepare for, and expect, betrayal. 

Liz rolls onto her other side, jerks angrily at the covers, which are a tangled, uncomfortable mess by now.

Red has never betrayed her. On the contrary, he's rescued her, and her colleagues, again and again.

She'd settle for his gratitude, for the chance just once to save him and receive his embrace as an equal. Not that she ever will be, not really.

He's old enough to be her father, powerful and wealthy. So dangerous he travels freely through the most chaotic regions of the world, so confident he walked into the FBI and then walked back out again, as free as ever.

Red would surely laugh uncomfortably with embarrassment if he ever found out how often she thinks of him when she's alone in bed at night, then deflect her attentions as skillfully as he avoids her questions, any unnecessary personal disclosures.

There are probably women all over the world tossing and turning in their beds, yearning for Raymond Reddington tonight.

She can never let him know. Not if she wants to keep working with him. And that's all she wants these days. At least all that she believes she can ever have.

Liz rolls back onto her stomach and surrenders helplessly to her auction daydreams until finally, in the early hours of the morning, she sleeps.


	3. To Keep You Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, romance, fragment, G. AU from S2 E13

"What are you going to do? Ground me? Take away my phone privileges? "

Liz has saved up these words, practiced and memorized them for just such an occasion. Like so many other carefully chosen phrases that highlight the age difference between them, or hint that she sees Red in a parental role, they are her most useful barrier against his attentions.

Red knows by now that she feels something for him. He's pushing, probing her defenses.

But she isn't ready.

Liz hasn't recovered from the sham of her marriage. The humiliation when the only man she ever made love with, the man she married, turned out to be a liar and a traitor.

If she can't keep Red at a distance, he's going to say or do something that makes her choose. To open her heart and love him, or let him go.

She doesn't want to say no. But she needs time to heal. She's not ready to say yes.

Red has gotten better at hiding the pain in his eyes when she brings up their age difference. He almost seems to expect her jibes, to brace himself for them. In contrast, Liz could care less that he's no longer a young man. To be left alone some thirty or so years in the future is of no concern compared to the possibility she might lose him to a blacklister or one of his innumerable enemies today, this week, or this year. But never to lie in his arms, never to feel the intensity of his brilliant mind and his passionate heart turned wholly in service of her pleasure? That risk shudders through her even as she hesitates.

Liz can't do this much longer. She's hurting him on a daily basis, dimming the light that once shone so brightly in his eyes when he looked at her. As if she was his second chance, his hope of heaven. Fulcrum or no fulcrum, one day she'll turn around and he'll be gone. She can't expect him to endure this treatment forever.

Liz pauses, catches Red watching her depart through the glass wall of the cafe. 

She wants so badly to be done with Tom, to come to Red without that shadow of self-doubt and mistrust forever between them. When the realization hits, she just stands there, frozen in her tracks, staring back at Red through the plate glass.

She can't ever go back. She's been waiting for the impossible.

Liz will never again be an innocent bride, a submissive lover, the naive new agent who looked down at Raymond Reddington in chains and wondered why he didn't look like a monster. She's seen terrible things, killed again and again, survived capture and torture by serial killers. 

If she's too broken for this now, she can't expect time to make anything better.

Liz shoves her hands deep into her pockets and walks back toward Red.

He stands up as she enters the cafe and waits for her, looking worried. 

"Yes, Lizzie?" he asks her.

She steps so close they almost touch. Takes her hands out of her pockets, flexes her fingers nervously. Takes a deep breath, then lets it out, searching his face.

Red looks wary. 

"Yes," she says abruptly. "You're right. I was wrong to go off without backup like that."

His mouth softens.

"I only want to keep you safe."

Liz nods. "I want that too. I want to keep you safe, as well."

He tilts his head, his face crinkling with amusement.

"Well, that's certainly very thoughtful..." he begins.

"I'll give it to you," she promises, gazing into his eyes. "The Fulcrum. No strings."

There's a moment between them where she suddenly feels fear, as if a cold breath of air is passing between them, as his expression goes impossibly remote. 

"Excellent decision," Red responds, in a voice devoid of emotion. 

Does he think now that she wants him to disappear?

Very cautiously, Liz lifts her hands to his fedora, tilts it back on his head just slightly. She holds her breath as she brings her hands to rest on his shoulders, her fingertips at the nape of his neck. She's never touched him this way before.

"If you stay, I don't want it to be because I'm useful," she says quietly. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long."

After a pause that feel like forever, he sets his hands precisely at her hips, not pulling her closer, just a firm pressure that holds her in place.

"Lizzie, I think by now you've made it very clear ..."

Determination and regret.

"I'm a liar, Red," she interrupts him. "You scare me. But losing you ..." she shakes her head, searches his face for some reassurance. "Nothing would be worse."

His voice is infinitely gentle as his hands on her hips loosen.

"I should scare you, Lizzie," he responds softly as she steps into the space between their bodies, feels his arms come up around her slowly. As if he expects to let her go at any moment.

"That's not what I feel, Red," she whispers. Their bodies are touching now.

Why won't he just kiss her?

He closes his eyes briefly, a pained expression flitting across his face. He swallows hard, as if tasting something bitter.

"Lizzie."

His voice sounds so sad. His hands on her back are tracing comforting little patterns through her clothing. Not pulling her in.

There's something Red needs from her. Something he wants, that he's not hearing. Standing in the circle of his arms, closer physically than she's ever been to him, Liz can feel that invisible distance between them widening.

Speechless, it's all she can think of, his personal language, her mouth going dry with terror that it won't be enough.

Liz slides to her knees on the floor, lays her palms on his thighs just above his knees, looks up at him in entreaty and waits.

Shock, and then wonder.

Red reaches down, lifts her by her upper arms as if she were weightless, crushes her mouth to his. Liz winds her arms around him and kisses him back, feels his fingers tangle themselves in her hair.

There's a loud spatter of applause from all sides.

Liz looks around to see the patrons of the cafe, as well as the waitstaff, smiling and applauding.

Red blinks and looks a little sheepish, but very, very happy. His mouth is smeared with her lipstick.

Liz tugs his handkerchief from his pocket, dabs his lips clean.

"Please tell me you have a safe house somewhere close to here?" she asks him.

Red tugs his hat back down over his forehead, gestures towards the door.

"Right this way," he declaims, as he hustles her toward the exit.


	4. Last Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, Angst, Response to S2 E14

Her name was his last word.

Elizabeth Keen can't deny what she heard him say, down on his knees on that dirty white tile.

In the relative privacy of the car, she lights into a shaken Raymond Reddington, at least verbally. She'd strike him if she thought it would help.

By the end of her diatribe, she's weeping, and his familiar mask is sagging. So damp around his eyes.

He couldn't bear it, for Liz to die trying to save him. For her to die and leave him alone, to live without her.

How can Red be so sure of his own feelings, and so unwilling to acknowledge her own? Which are just as important as his convoluted and repressed emotions, despite her age and her relative inexperience with life and with love.

Tom taught her she could walk away from anything. Anyone.

Red taught her that life isn't worth living unless you walk towards the light. Towards the one you love, no matter what danger, degradation or filth lies waiting between you.

Liz couldn't bear to live if she didn't try anything, risk anything, to save Red. To be honest, she'd rather die and know he's still alive and free.

So she understands why he repeated those words to her. But they don't change anything, except perhaps to affirm what she has already admitted in her deepest, most secret heart of hearts.

That night, alone in bed, with the lights turned out in her lonely hotel room, she allows herself to hear that final whisper once more.

"Lizzie."

All the love she's ever dreamed of. And it will come.


	5. Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, sad

Raymond Reddington tosses and turns in bed, unable to fall asleep.

It's not the thread count of the sheets, the number of blankets, the fit of his freshly ironed pajamas.

He opens his eyes and considers the pill bottle on the nightstand once again. His watch, his gun, his tranquilizers.

How appropriately symbolic.

Liz thinks he's damaged. She wants to have the upper hand, to save him and receive his thanks.

Help him, although she doesn't even understand his end game. What it will mean for her, the bureau, the government, if he wins.

Red has always believed in portents. He doesn't act on them without considerable thought, but he always watches for the invisible pattern beneath the apparent randomness of life.

Sometimes, he discovers human intent. 

More often, he can hear his subconscious mind providing subtle guidance from beneath the smoothly whirring gears of his constant plans and schemes.

Madelaine Pratt betrayed him. Selling him to the Kings passed well beyond the realm of foreplay.

Red didn't miss the twitch as Liz reacted to that word. She's responding to him as a man now, god help her, and his intimation that he resisted Madelaine's practiced charms clearly pleased her. As he knew it would.

That doesn't change the fact that earlier today, he just barely survived being decapitated because he allowed himself to care about a woman. A woman he doesn't even desire any more.

Elizabeth Keen has crossed the line from asset to liability.

No wonder he can't sleep.

Red sits up on the side of the bed, bare feet resting on the fine wool burr of the Persian bedroom rug.

He yearns for Liz with every fiber of his being, not only the beautiful, intelligent, courageous young woman who saved his life, but the future Elizabeth Keen he can still see like a hazy figure in the mist, on the unknown path before him. Powerful, deadly, every inch his equal.

He planned to train her, guide her, show her by example how to navigate the new world order that looms closer with every blacklister they eliminate.

But those plans are worthless now. 

His reputation as the Concierge of Crime won't survive more than one or two of her clear-eyed, challenging stares. Because he uses and betrays every woman he touches. 

And Red can't restrain himself from touching her for very much longer.

To spare her would be to display a fatal weakness. To betray her would be to cut out his own heart and offer it to his enemies.

Red needs to leave the task force and Elizabeth Keen behind, and proceed with his back-up plan. He always has a new plan. That's how he has survived for so long.

He reaches over and shakes the pill bottle, then sets it back down. 

He should have kissed her in the car. Stored up the taste of her sweet mouth, the smell of her perfume for the lonely years to come. Will he ever dare to see her again? 

Dembe is asleep next door. His jet is less than an hour away. They'll leave at first light.

"Lizzie," Red whispers softly, hopelessly into the empty night.


	6. A New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, romance, AU. Follows and completes "Portents".

He appears at her usual lunch table in the discreet little brasserie without any warning. 

"May I join you?" he asks, taking a seat opposite her without waiting for her reply, and setting his fedora on the white tablecloth to his left.

Liz lifts her gaze from her phone and holds her breath to avoid reacting.

Raymond Reddington. Clean-shaven and world-weary, in his customary three piece suit and couture tie.

It's been five years without a word.

In recent months, every political, social, and economic reality has been re-shaped by the revelations of The Fulcrum.

He's a public figure now. A high official in the new international confederation spawned by the revelation that the supposedly democratic governments of the world were utterly riddled with age-old corruption, and buoyed by carefully orchestrated demonstrations, currency disruptions, and strategic assassinations.

"Lizzie?"

Liz thought she was past her fury at finding her hotel room ransacked. At Red's disappearance without a word of explanation or farewell. At her own foolhardy confession that she cared about him.

She didn't listen carefully. Red chose his words very precisely. When he said "you can't" he meant every word. Not giving her any choice. Just turning her life upside down again, then doing the same thing to the entire planet.

Liz sets her phone down and turns off the screen. College professors don't go armed, or she'd probably have put at least one bullet in him by now.

"Why are you here, Red?" she asks him.

In answer, he pulls a long narrow envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket and sets it on the table between them.

"The answers about your father are inside," he responds brusquely.

Liz shakes her head.

"I don't want anything from you," she responds. Which isn't technically true.

He shrugs, slants his tired eyes at the waiter. Orders the most expensive wine in the cellar without consulting the menu.

"Don't you want to hear what I've been doing while we were apart?" Red asks her idly.

She already knows. He's brought down governments, instigated treaties protecting children, wildlife, the environment. Presided over the destruction of more nuclear stockpiles in six months than the last half-century of disarmament talks managed to achieve.

Red tastes and approves the wine, smiling genially at the wine steward who is conversing about the bottle with a warm expression of approval. She's been lunching here for two years, and Liz has never even met the wine steward.

"There is no 'we,' Red," she responds. Takes the glass he holds out to her.

The ruby liquid glows like blood.

She would have died for him. Died to try and save him. And then he was gone.

"We changed the world, Lizzie," he says, holding up his glass in her direction. 

She doesn't follow suit, just stares down into her wine. 

"How can you say that?" she asks him, finally. "When you left me and never looked back?"

"You don't think you were with me?" he answers, swirling his wine around in his glass as if examining the color. "You don't think I carried your image, your words with me everywhere I went?"

Liz smiles without warmth.

"So everything you did, you did for me? And now you've come to lay the spoils at my feet?"

Red shrugs, pours himself another glass. Liz still hasn't taken a sip, her throat closing up as she watches his graceful movements. His pale, well-tended hands. How she once longed for him to touch her.

She's nobody, an adjunct professor at an obscure school. 

He's one of the rulers of this utopian new world. Or dystopia, as the once wealthy and powerful claim as they watch their vast resources being seized and used for the common good.

The confederation has almost eliminated hunger, on every continent. Child mortality is falling rapidly. Liz can't begin to imagine what the world will look like in another five years.

"I knelt at your feet once, Lizzie," Red says softly. 

The well-dressed patrons at the nearby tables are ignoring his presence, as polite, sophisticated people do when in the public space of the famous or infamous.

She shakes her head quickly, despite the heat pulsing through her at the thought of him down on his knees. Watches the brief flicker of hope in his eyes sputter and die.

He can have any woman he wants. Why is he sitting here with her?

Because he wants you the way you still want him, responds a traitorous little voice in the back of her mind. The fantasy that keeps recurring, no matter how often she pushes those thoughts away.

Liz looks across the envelope full of old secrets at Red.

He's smiling mildly at her, his expression remote, the network of fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.

'What do you want from me, Red? What do you really want?" she asks him, shocked as his urbane mask drops briefly, his voice flat and serious.

"You, Lizzie. Just you. However you'll have me."

Liz swallows hard at her answering surge of desire. He still hasn't touched her, he's never even kissed her, and her whole body is yearning for him.

This is madness. She needs to tell him to go. She has a freshman lecture to give in less than 30 minutes.

"You won't leave again?" emerges from her mouth instead. She's immediately ashamed of the bitter edge to her voice, the way he flinches in response.

Red shakes his head, looking unbelievably hopeful once more.

She wants to lean across the table, seize him by the lapels, and kiss him. She does want him on his knees, she wants his hands on her, his mouth. To strip off his clothing and explore every private, hidden detail of his big, powerful, heavily scarred body.

"Lizzie? Shall we go?"

Red is on his feet, tucking away the envelope once more, tossing a handful of bills on the table. Holding out one hand. 

She can throw his offer back in his face, hurt him as deeply as he hurt her when he left. The humiliation of explaining to the FBI that he didn't tell her he was leaving, exacerbated by how quickly they asked for her resignation. The months of living on credit cards and vodka until she pulled herself together. How hard she cried the first time she saw him on the evening news.

He smiles down at her sadly, as if he can hear her thoughts. As if on some level, Red approves and agrees with his punishment.

"No?" he asks, setting his hat on his head and stepping back. Still holding out his hand, palm up now.

Liz reaches for his hand, rises on her unsteady legs.

"Yes, let's go," she responds. She would have died to keep him safe. Her pride isn't worth another five lonely years, not even one more night of fruitless longing. She clings to his arm as they wend their way towards the exit.

They pause on the sidewalk as the big black Mercedes sedan draws up, Dembe at the wheel. As if five years was no more than a day.

Red opens the back door, raises his brows as she hesitates.

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?"

"I'll have you any way you want." 

She gives a firm nod, enters the car and slides over on the black leather seat to make room for him.

Red chuckles and seats himself beside her, pulling the door shut as Dembe pulls out into traffic. 

The portents for this meeting were so hopeful, but Lizzie has surpassed his every expectation.

Red has created a new world where they are free to live and love. All that remains now is for him to share it with her.


	7. Noone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, angst, post S2 E15. AU.

Alone on a hotel balcony, long past midnight. Red doesn't sleep well, so he urges Dembe to rest. But Liz wakes in the night and sees him silhouetted against the lights of the cityscape. His cigar a bright point of light, the only scent this high above the Singapore traffic.

"Can't sleep, Lizzie?' he greets her without turning around, just tossing a glance over his shoulder and then away, when he realizes she's clad in a very short, filmy nightgown.

A deep crimson nightgown. Perfect for a winter.

Her bare feet make no sound as she crosses the balcony. But he can smell her perfume.

Her arms wrap around his waist. She leans her head against the center of his back.

"Will he be OK, Red?" she whispers. Dembe took a bullet for her. But that's not what she's asking. Not really.

The blacklister escaped, after taking out both Red's team and three local FBI agents. It was sheer luck that Ressler had food poisoning and wasn't here to die as well.

'We're all going to be fine, Lizzie," he reassures her. "My new team will be here before dawn."

Red turns and pulls her into his arms. Feels her squirm to embrace him with her arms beneath his suit jacket.

Delicious torture, the smell of her warm skin, her cheek pressed tight against his chest.

Red drops a comforting kiss on the top of her head. Liz turns her pale face up, her dark-lashed eyes enormous in the dim light.

"We're alone, aren't we, Red?" she whispers.

"You're safe with me," he responds. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

One of her hands slides lower as she presses herself against him, pinning him between her hips and high cold railing of the balcony. Her intentions unmistakable. Irresistible.

"Yes, we're alone," he responds, bending and angling his head to kiss her as he drops his cigar off the edge of the balcony without compunction.

If his team is delayed, they could both die today. It's been years for Red. But he's quite sure that making love with a beautiful, willing woman is just like riding a bicycle.

***

Liz collapses atop him, breathing hard against his neck. Her loose hair rubs against his face as she moves with the force of his deep, panting breaths.

That took every ounce of self-control he possessed, and more. Liz revealed herself to be unexpectedly timid in bed. Almost inexperienced, and then so amazed by the power of her own arousal after he persevered.

Whatever his talents as an assassin, Tom Keen was clearly no lover at all. And what was wrong with all her previous boyfriends, anyway?

"Oh, Red," she pants, kissing the line of his jaw almost reverently. "Oh Red, that was amazing."

No. It was just barely adequate, although heartfelt. Bicycling takes serious energy.

And how long will be it be at this age before he can manage that again?

She's warm and lax, clinging to him as if every inch of his skin is precious to her. Ready now to be set alight, to be loved a little deeper, a little rougher. Hopefully he can hold her again at least once more tonight.

"I didn't know that was even possible," she murmurs. "You are such an incredible, perfect man."

He's not going to argue, but he can't help but wonder.

"I'm sure you say lovely things to all your lovers, sweet Lizzie," he answers, kissing her lips once again. Her mouth tastes so clean and fresh. Her small white teeth are so perfect.

She pulls back, looking confused.

"I thought you knew everything in the world about me, Red," she says. Her puzzled blue eyes searching his face. "I've only been with Tom, and now you."

Red tries frantically not to allow his reaction to show, winces as his non-reaction is enough for her to understand.

"What is it, Red?" she asks him. Her eyes so wide and hurt. As if somehow she already suspects.

***

Dembe told him to tell her. Told him to just tell the truth and get it over with. But he didn't, because he was afraid.

Afraid to destroy the new closeness growing between them. Afraid she would hide or destroy the Fulcrum in revenge. Afraid of what she might do to him in punishment. No matter that he deserved anything she could dream up, and more.

But this?

It breaks him, sears through that last pretense at redemption, that he once saved her life.

To know now that his Lizzie could have come to him heart-whole, untouched? 

Red ignores for a moment that the woman he loves today, who has inexplicably come to care for him as well, has been formed and shaped only within the crucible of treason and betrayal. That she's somehow forgiven him the loss of her father, husband, home, adoptive child, even her dog.

He hired the man who called himself Tom Keen, and because of that choice, Liz lost her innocence, her self-confidence, her reputation at the FBI. No matter how valuable she is to them today, everyone knows about the young profiler who married a spy.

He destroys everything he touches.

Red kisses Liz just once more, with all the starved passion of his lonely years, all the lonely years to come, before he tells her.


	8. All the Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, angst, romance, AU

She borrowed Cooper's car, and drove like a madwoman, and still she almost missed him.

"So you're going?"

"Yes."

His words clipped. Unforgiving.

Dembe walks past her without speaking, carrying several matching pieces of luggage.

She betrayed his secret to the cabal. To the judge in their pay. Of course he's going.

Liz wipes her nose, then dabs at her eyes. Red handed her his pocket square, in motion with Dembe as they pack the last few items.

"Red, how could I have known?"

He pauses, tugs his hat down over his cynical eyes, cold and gray, all the color drained away.

"Did you know I put Tom in your path? Hired him to be the consummate assassin, to protect you?"

She staggers backwards, actually flinches physically away from his words.

"You hired him to marry me?" Strange how deeply that outrages her, even knowing all the crimes he's committed.

He blinks at her, his guarded eyes widening in his own version of outrage.

"No, of course not! What kind of man do you think..." Red stops mid-sentence, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Oh that's right, you think I'm damaged? Pop psychology doesn't suit you, Lizzie."

Dembe is frozen on the threshold, holding a black leather briefcase in each hand. Liz reaches for the worst thing she can say.

"To think I pitied you ..." she begins, stopping as Red's lips whiten, curling back from his teeth.

"To think I believed you were worth saving from that fire ..."

That big hand holding her so tight. Her father's touch, the only one she remembers, disappearing forever.

Red. So that was Red as well.

"You made me, so you think you can break me?" she hisses at him.

He rolls his eyes.

"You know I'm not your father. Which is possibly my only consolation at this new low in my life."

Liz takes a deep breath. 

"How is this a new low? You, getting to fly off and leave me to face the wreckage?"

"Exactly."

"Coward. Traitor. Monster."

She spits the words at him, and Red just stands there, his eyes wide, just taking her words like blows. Somehow not angry at all any longer. He spreads his hands wide, revealing the holster tucked within his suit jacket.

"Anything else you need to say to me, Lizzie?"

Dembe is back again. The room has been emptied of everything personal. If she doesn't say it now, she may never get another chance. 

"Yes." She walks over to him, palms open and raised, as if to show she means him no harm.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

So close she can smell cigars and scotch and fine cologne, almost touch the lines and creases that betray his age despite his carefully tended skin. He blinks warily, those thick, fair lashes she's never touched, only felt fluttering against her cheek once as he held her close.

"I love you, Raymond Reddington. Take good care of yourself out there."

There's a twitch at the corner of one eye, nothing more. 

"May I kiss you good-bye? Please, Red?" 

She's whispering, still not touching him.

"I've never seen you cruel before." He's whispering now, too. "But I suppose I deserve this."

He swallows, spreads his arms a little wider.

"Go ahead. Do your worst."

Liz steps forward until their bodies touch, slides her arms around the widest point of his waist, strokes his back through the satin of his suit vest. Even through the layers of vest, shirt, undershirt, she knows he can feel her fingertips tracing his back, the deep ridges of his scars.

Then she sets her mouth against his, parts his unresisting lips with her tongue. Coaxes him with little kisses until at last he responds. Kissing her back almost reluctantly, as if he's sure she's about to pull away. His mouth and his clean-shaven face are both so soft.

Liz rocks her hips against him, curves her body closer. Slides one hand to the front of his trousers as she kisses him more deeply.

Red breaks away, steps back. Staring at her.

"Lizzie." Her name sounds like a curse, but there's a look of doubt, almost dread in his eyes.

"Seven minutes, Raymond." Dembe is still at the door, radiating desperation in place of his usual calm.

Red rolls his eyes as a police siren sounds, far too close. Then he's moving fast through the open door, following Dembe down flight after flight of stairs, Liz trailing afterward, trying frantically to decipher that last look.

Dembe starts through the garage door, ducks back into the stairwell, weapon raised.

"How many?" asks Red in a light voice that sets off alarms that drown out her every thought as he reaches beneath his jacket. Deadly, she knows this term all too well; it also includes dead.

"I have Cooper's car," she says. "Up one flight."

They hurry behind her. She parked it at an angle in a handicapped space, FBI plates and Cooper's blue placard on the front dash protecting it equally from being tagged or towed.

"In the trunk."

Dembe dives in first, Red giving her a terrified, or perhaps furious, roll of his eyes before crawling in beside him.

Liz slams the lid, stomps to sit shaking for just a moment in the drivers seat. Then she pulls out her badge, lays it on the seat beside her, and drives.

She passes four road blocks after leaving the hotel.

At the first one, she claims she's shifting position. At the second, that she's looking for Ressler. Her badge is all she needs.

The third and fourth are unofficial, more frightening evidence of the reach of the cabal.

She bluffs her way through one, shoots her way through the other.

Reloading as she drives, she stares down at her badge. That fourth stop, she didn't even hesitate.

Liz doesn't know where to go. She pulls off the interstate, parks behind an abandoned filling station. Pops the trunk.

Then Liz gets out of the car, but stands well back as Dembe and Red emerge with their weapons raised.

"Lizzie, where are we?" asks Red. Dembe stares around at the twilight purple of the forested hills, the high weeds encroaching on the cement. He lowers his gun, then folds his arms across his chest. Just watching her, his dark eyes murderous.

She's never been afraid of him, the subtle, violent, violated shadow who folds himself into corners as Red expands.

She's not going to start now.

Liz walks straight up to Dembe, close enough to touch him.

"I'm sorry for locking you in like that. It was all I could think of," she says. "Where do we need to go now?"

"Where are we, Elizabeth?" he asks. His tone smoothing out, his weapon disappearing inside his heavy jacket. 

She shrugs. "Interstate to nowhere." 

She hands him her phone, her screen set to her secure GPS.

Dembe pulls another phone, a burner, from his pocket, starts giving rapid instructions in fluent Spanish. She recognizes the word helicopter. That's good.

Liz can't put it off any longer. She turns to see Red just standing there, legs spread, rocking back on his heels. He shakes his head with disapproval.

"Lizzie, what are you doing?" he asks her.

She shrugs, walks towards him.

"Saving your life?"

He winces at the reference.

"Here."

Liz digs deep into her jacket pocket, pulls out the tiny square of antiquated circuitry. Holds it in her fist like a painful memory, then turns her palm up, letting go. 

"It's not the Fulcrum, but maybe it will help you find it?"

Red picks it up from her hand and stares at it. Scratches the side of his head.

"It's the first step to finding it, yes," he breathes out. High color brightens then fades from his sagging face, no mask enough to hide his bone-deep exhaustion. "And what do you want in return? For me to disappear?'

There's a look of distance, almost disdain on his weary, sweat-blotched face.

Liz shakes her head decisively.

"As I recall, we were interrupted," she says. Stepping closer. He doesn't pretend not to understand.

"That wasn't good-bye," he says. So firmly. "You need to get going now. We'll be fine."

Liz tilts her head at him.

"So kiss me good-bye, Red?" she asks him, trying to sneer. Hoping it doesn't land as pathetic. "Show me how it's done?"

He steps closer, nostrils flaring, mouth set in such bitter lines. As if she's never felt his tender lips open for her, yield to her desire.

"Like this, Lizzie," he answers her, lifting her chin with the knuckles of one hand, glaring at her, then bending his mouth for one soft, aching kiss. Their bodies not touching at all.

"Oh, Red." 

The sound escapes her, the perfect taste of his mouth, the absolute rightness of it, somehow mingled with the stress and strain of driving at high speed for hours in a stolen car. Shooting a man dead without warning. Abandoning her entire life and her career, and for what?

Red stares down at her, so visibly self-controlled Liz wants to scream, and then suddenly she can smell it. Not the skunk scent of fear, but cold rain on freshly split pine, the very essence of despair.

She closes her eyes and reaches out for him, allows him to hold her so gently against him. To pretend she will obey.

And then she kisses him again. The kisses that mean she doesn't hear the approaching helicopter, the unshed tears burning down the back of her throat.

The kisses that mean take me with you, forever. Not good-bye. Never good-bye.

Red lifts his mouth and they breath, together, lips almost touching.

"You're too young, you have your whole life," he whispers. "Foolish girl, playing games you can never understand."

She's no longer afraid. His breath is warm on her lips.

"You're too old to waste a single day, resisting when you want to surrender," Liz whispers back. "Foolish boy, I see you waiting to come and play with me."

Red groans, takes her face between his hands, almost brutal as he studies her, as she pants for him, gives him back his own gaze again and again in the mirrored delight of his widening eyes, alight with life once again.

The promise of love, and desire, and freedom. Soft, and hard, and soft again. He's done his worst, and he hasn't broken her. Only safety now in her arms.

They cling tightly to each other as the helicopter carries them away.


	9. At the Audrey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fluff

Elizabeth Keen could be blissfully happy at the Audrey, if it weren't for the constant visits by Raymond Reddington.

Within a month, he knows everyone in the building.

Greets them by name, inquires after their family, their pets.

She's as likely to find him sipping tea on her elderly neighbor's balcony as chatting with the pierced and tattooed teenagers on the rooftop deck, his cigar smoke lending a pungent note to their cigarettes and pot.

As far as she knows he doesn't live at the Audrey. But he's often at her door, with a story, a small gift, hot food when she's exhausted from a long day or night at the Post Office.

Coffee in the morning.

"Thanks, Red," she mumbles, taking the steaming cup from his hand as he breezes past her into her living room. She takes a deep, grateful sip, holding her short terrycloth robe closed at her neck. 

It's a deep burgundy red that hides bloodstains. Not a consideration until she started working with the task force. All her clothing is gradually shifting along a darker, more intense spectrum. Away from the pastels she previously favored.

He turns from surveying the room to fix her with his penetrating gaze. Shakes his head, then tosses his hat on an end table.

"Lizzie, you've been working too hard," he announces. "So I told Cooper we'd be starting on the next blacklister at noon, and that I needed you prior to that to discuss a few details."

Liz blinks at him, then takes another sip of her coffee.

"What do we need to discuss?" she asks, wishing she had slept better. She knows she looks terrible - tangled hair falling out one long messy braid, the bluish circles beneath her eyes that reflect short nights punctuated by confusing dreams of fire. Waking in her silent apartment to a child screaming in her mind.

Red shrugs. "Well, it's not really a discussion."

There's a brisk knock at her door.

"Ah, here they are!" exclaims Red with evident satisfaction. He opens the door and three women enter. They look similar enough to be sisters, short and plump with shiny dark hair and olive skin.

One is carrying two brown paper grocery bags, the second has a plastic caddy filled with cleaning supplies, and the third is wheeling a large rectangular case.

"Just on time," announces Red, as the women fan out through her apartment at his direction.

"Red, what are you doing?" she asks, frowning as the woman with the case opens the door to her spare bedroom and disappears within. She never uses that room, can't imagine relaxing with another person so close. Not after Tom. It's hard enough to sleep alone in the apartment, behind locks and alarms.

He smiles at her. 

"I'm going to read the paper, and drink my coffee, and you, Lizzie, are going to enjoy your massage."

The woman at the doorway of her spare room is beckoning. She looks kind, and very professional, with her coat removed to display khaki slacks and a white polo shirt with the logo of a local spa.

Liz approaches to see a massage table draped with white flannel sheets, soft music featuring atonal chimes playing quietly in the background.

"Oh, Red."

He's already seated at her dining table in his shirtsleeves, newspaper fanned out in front of him, looking completely at home.

Come to think of it, Red looks at home wherever he is. As if he's somehow learned in his travels to carry it about with him, as each snail does a perfectly-sized shell.

But snails are always alone.

***

Completely relaxed, Liz wanders out in her robe to find that her apartment has been scrubbed into pristine cleanliness. The mingled scents of vanilla and cinnamon are wafting out from the kitchen - apparently someone has been baking.

Her mouth waters. She has such a hard time eating when working a case. Her stomach just knots in on itself, and she lives on coffee and whatever stale treats their support staff leave in the break room at the end of the day.

"Better? There's more coffee, and fresh coffee cake."

Red tilts his head as he stands and draws out a chair for her. She's so close to him when she sits that she can smell his familiar scent, cologne and cigar smoke and something else, perhaps his soap or how it rises with heat from his skin. The smell of safety.

On impulse she raises her right hand to his freshly shaven cheek as he seats her.

"You're so good to me, Red."

He holds her gaze for a moment, then turns his head and presses his lips against her wrist. Against her scar.

Tom tried to reassure her when she confessed how ugly it made her feel, but he always held her left hand. He never kissed her scar.

Never allowed his lips to linger, the very tip of his tongue tracing the raised, twisted, discolored tissue.

Red turns his face back up so that her palm lies against his face once more. She spreads her fingers very slowly, barely stroking his skin with her fingertips. 

"I want to be good for you," he says very quietly. 

The women are bustling quietly around in the background, preparing to depart, but Liz is falling down the well of Red's knowing eyes. 

She can't pretend this wasn't coming. She's felt the energy between them tightening, the intimacy of regular contact somehow heightening her anticipation rather than creating an expectation.

She has to choose. And he's prepared for whatever choice she makes, ready to remain a watchful, almost paternal figure, or to allow her to take that next step. She doesn't have to decide this morning. But soon.

Red smiles faintly as her eyes search his face. As if he can read her thoughts, her doubts.

He trusts her to choose. Whatever the secrets between them, whatever mistakes she makes, however many times she falls short or fails, Red just stands there beside her.

Offering his trust, his love, his protection.

He's not an easy man to love. He's arrogant and long-winded and secretive. He could tie her in knots with his endless plotting, slice through her heart if her inexperience fails to satisfy his sophisticated tastes. She might be stepping into heaven, or plummeting into hell.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, Red. Show me."

She tips her head back, parts her lips in invitation.

Very slowly, he bends his lips to hers, kisses her with a tenderness that wrings at her heart. How could she have hesitated?

Elizabeth Keen is blissfully happy at the Audrey, which is mostly due to the constant visits by Raymond Reddington.


	10. From the End of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, T, fantasy, crack, AU, romance, fluff. This is a plot bunny and may not be to everyone's taste.  
> *so far from canon I'm not sure how to tag it*

They roll the old man in his wheelchair down to the very edge of the sea.

The Pacific Ocean is deep and cold here, but he's beyond wealthy, so there's a private, open elevator down to the beach, and a ramp, and guards spread out over the darkened lawns of his estate on the cliffs above.

The private nurses tuck a third cashmere shawl more firmly over his shoulders, then retreat back up to the safety of the house. Leaving him alone, with the chill, foggy breeze lifting his few wisps of white hair.

Everything that can be said now, has been. Except to one person. If she still exists.

Raymond Reddington folds his trembling fingers over the loaded gun in his shawl-draped lap. The paralysis has reached above his waist by now. He needs to act before it reaches his hands.

He stares at the kelp-speckled sea, heaving beneath a new moon. And he calls.

Calls the words he memorized so many years ago, in the language no human man can know.

And then he waits. He's always been a patient man. 

Especially now, when he has no time left at all. And then all of eternity.

***

He's practically dozing, slumped a little, when the surface of the sea erupts into white foam.

He blinks and stares. 

She rises from the froth, her bare, perfect torso gleaming white. Her youthful face at once so familiar, and yet inhuman, impossibly long dark hair streaming down her back to lose itself in the curling waves that dance about her like playful dolphins.

He struggles to sit fully upright, battling the old aching in his spine. The twinges from so many scars and injuries, his perennially sore jaw from grinding his teeth through so many sleepless nights.

"After so many years, you speak."

Her voice belies her youthful appearance, authority tolling like a deep-voiced bell as she approaches through the subsiding surf. Below her waist the coils of her powerful lower body appear, scaled under the night sky in greens and grays and blacks. 

In sunlight, that one time, they were iridescent as bubbles, abalone, mother of pearl. The day she left him, not so many miles from here, on a beach that no longer exists, reclaimed via earthquake and rain by the pounding sea.

He bends his head, his stiff neck, as best he can. Not much.

"Why?"

She surges closer, her eyes fixed on him. Still blue, but darker now, or perhaps just more changeable.

"To say good-bye. It's time for me to go."

He tilts his head at her, smiles his bravest smile through cracked, wrinkled lips.

"You look so beautiful, Lizzie. You haven't aged a day. There must be something magical about the ocean."

She laughs lightly, raising her brows. Still approaching. He never thought she would come this close. She even looks pleased, despite his use of the old nickname. Not her proper title, Princess Marina, called Masha by her doting mother, who was butchered on land for her secrets.

"Foolish Red. The ocean isn't magical. I am."

She rises up, the coils beneath her lashing the waves, and his gaze is drawn to the trident in her right hand.

They took it from her, tearing that burning scar in her hand. Thrusting her into a land-bound life she never wanted, could barely endure.

A life Red saved her from, by tracking down the Fulcrum, and eventually, the hiding place of her trident.

Such a small, pearl-encrusted object, to be fraught with such extraordinary power.

She makes the smallest movement with her other hand, and then suddenly she's striding through thigh-high water toward him, her new-formed legs strong and bare. Appearing almost human save for the delicate crown at her brow and the dark hair coiling about her, gradually shielding her naked body from his gaze.

Red shakes his head in soundless appreciation. If he could have chosen his last sight on earth, this would be it. 

She leans down, sets one finger on the gun, glinting in the moonlight.

"Why did you wait so long?" she asks him, her inhumanly calm gaze shifting from the gun to his face, then back again.

Red firms his jaw, shrugs as best he can. He knows he lied to her, failed her, in those early years, no matter how gloriously he redeemed himself in that final battle that culminated in her return to her undersea kingdom.

"It wasn't time. There was still work to do. Tracking down the men and women who stole you and your mother from the sea, tying up loose ends ..." 

His voice trails off. 

That laugh again.

"Red, there is no time beneath the sea. My father watched Atlantis sink beneath the waves."

He swallows, trying to understand that. Trying to accept it.

Perhaps he will always be remembered? A curious immortality, to live as a story beneath the sea. 

She reaches for his hands, squeezes them very gently. As if she can sense the arthritis, the knot of blackest pain at every once-broken bone. Her white hands are cold as the waves lapping at his velvet slipper-shod feet.

"Will you come, now?" 

She gives his hands the gentlest of tugs, as if she expects him to rise from the wheelchair, follow her into the waves.

"The gun is faster," he whispers, unable to deny her even this. He can't stand at all now, much less walk, but he'll drown for her if she asks it of him. Suffer her to drag him beneath the waves. Red swallows hard against the fear he's always felt at the thought of drowning.

No matter. This is his Lizzie. This is only the end.

She leans closer, blinking so curiously at him. 

"Close your eyes, Red," she commands him. "And remember the day you met me."

Red closes his eyes, clutches at her cold hands with his wrinkled, shaking fingers.

His nose and mouth fill with the slick, brine-laden taste of the sea as her lips touch his, very lightly.

"Lizzie," he murmurs.

"Red."

There's an instant of darkness, the sensation of falling, pressure inside his ears, inside his lungs. A thrumming, as if his blood is rushing far too fast through his age-weakened arteries and veins.

Then she draws back and he opens his eyes.

The sea gleams molten with innumerable tiny dancing waves. Looking around, he can see the pinpoint of every star, the prickle of every coarse pale grain of sand.

She lowers her long dark lashes for a moment, releases his hands, then gazes back at him expectantly.

Red looks down at his own hands. His fingers are long and slim, unmarked by battered, swollen joints or age spots. He swallows so hard, and yet his throat doesn't hurt.

A smile blooms across her pale, pale face.

He tosses aside the shawls, rises to stand and strip off his heavy robe and baggy silk pajamas.

The body of a young man. The man who pulled her from the fire.

He reaches one hand to his shoulder, feels for the ridge where the scar tissue begins. Nothing. Just the smooth skin of his slim, muscular back.

She reaches up, gives his shoulder length hair a tug.

"So much hair!" 

Her eyes are smiling, but there's just a hint of worry. As if she's somehow waiting for his approval.

Red touches his own face. High cheekbones, unbroken nose, no lines at all that he can feel.

"Lizzie? Am I dead?" he asks her.

She shakes her head, takes his hand in hers. His right hand, her left. Then she raises her trident.

"No, I just shared a little part of my power with you," she advises him. "And now, it's really time to go. Come, Red."

She's right. There's shouting from the cliff tops, the shifting beams of high-powered flashlights.

As they begin wading deeper into the roiling water that somehow no longer feels cold, Red looks over at her. She seems joyful, confident, completely unconcerned.

From one moment to the next, she's walking at his side, and then her powerful tail is churning the water.

Red stops, tugging against her hand.

"Come, Red," she says, "Just think of swimming."

The pool at Mrs. Ostereich's house. Chlorine and so many small boys pretending not to run, again and again, to the faded turquoise diving board. Red holding his breath and jumping, and opening his eyes and swimming, swimming under water.

He lets go of her hand and surges up from beneath the waves, his legs replaced by coppery coils of immense strength and flexibility.

"Lizzie!" he gasps. 

She grins proudly, her gaze sweeping over him with approval. 

"I've waited so long for you to rule at my side, Red. It's time for you to come and meet our people."

He takes her hand once again and follows her away beneath the twinkling, driftwood specked foam.

***

The private nurses remove the empty wheelchair, the guards dispose of the unfired gun.

The story of Raymond Reddington ends.

The three thousand year love story of Red and Lizzie beneath the sea has just begun.


	11. I Still Love Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, short, fluff

"Yes, I still love him." 

Her tone is light, reflective. Red just admitted that he originally hired Tom, and yet Liz is still sitting in the car, so close beside him.

Red swallows hard. He told her love was being powerless, and yet he can't stop railing bitterly, if silently, at every evidence of its presence.

"Oh, I don't want to be married to him, or have a child with him, or have sex with him again."

She's not looking at him, her gaze turned inwards.

"I don't even want to touch him, ever again." Liz gives a little shudder. "But I understand him, that he was broken long before he came into my life. That he couldn't help the things he did."

Red's mouth is sour, the knot in his stomach hard as a fist. This is so much worse than her anger.

"So you can still love him, because you pity him?"

It's a feeble attempt. She barely glances at him, her fingers stroking her scar.

"No, Red, not pity. Just feel love for him as a human being, who he is, and who he's not."

That damn yoga class.

Red clears his throat.

"So you care for me, whatever I may have done, because I'm a human being?"

There's vicious edge to his words, but she's about to get out of the car. He's about to depart for two weeks in glorious Croatia. They have work to do. Blacklisters to apprehend.

Her eyelashes flicker upwards, her pupils dilating as she stares at him, momentarily startled. As if she wasn't thinking about him at all. Then she opens the door, preparing to leave the car.

"Oh no, Red." Her tone is smug. "The preceding conditions apply to Tom, not to you."

Liz flounces away as Red sits stunned in the car. Wait, what did she just say?


	12. And He Tells Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, fragment, G.

It's past ten when the black sedan pulls up and stops outside her motel, parking in the darkness at the far edge of the parking lot.

Dembe gets out and shuts the car door, but instead of opening the back door for her, he just leans against the front hood.

"Lizzie, there's something I need to tell you."

Liz rubs her eyes wearily. She's exhausted and hungry, but Red seems more alert than he's been all day, having passed from subdued to a curious, almost kinetic energy. She sometimes wonders if he ever sleeps. The circles beneath his eyes are so deep.

"Do you want to come inside?" she asks him. At least she can take off her shoes.

He shakes his head, then takes off his hat, setting it in his lap and stroking the brim.

"No, here is fine."

Red takes a deep breath, sighs audibly.

"It's about Tom. Please let me finish before you ask me any questions."

Liz nods, tries to compose her face.

Red blinks at her, as if he's trying to memorize her face. She gives him an encouraging smile. He winces.

"Lizzie, I hired Tom. He was supposed to guard you, protect you. Not enter your life, lie to you. Try to keep you for his own. Berlin hired him away from me."

She holds her face impassive with an effort. As if she's waiting for more. Because with Red, there's always more.

"Lizzie, I meant to give you some time to get established at the FBI. But when I learned you and Tom were so close to having a child together - I had to act."

Now she can't help but be curious.

"So you changed the timing of your plan to save me from having a child with Tom?" she asks.

He nods. 

She shakes her head in wonder. That thought never even occurred to her.

"Lizzie, you're taking this with extraordinary calm," he says. Looking almost scared, as if saying that will set her in motion.

It's a relief to get this out in the open after so long.

"Red, Tom told me all about how you hired him, back on the boat."

"What?!"

She shrugs.

"He thought it would turn me against you, make me want to set him free. And I was very angry, until I thought about it. That he was a traitor to you, as well as to me. And he didn't even know any better than to brag about his disloyalty."

Red looks dumbfounded.

"Lizzie, why didn't you say anything?"

She fixes him with her wide blue gaze. 

"It hurt you, keeping that secret from me, didn't it?" she says softly. Keeping his eyes on her.

Red nods.

"So the longer you waited, the harder it became, and the more it hurt?"

He gives a little shrug of acquiescence.

"When you love someone, that's how secrets work," she says softly, laying her hand on his knee. 

He just looks down at her hand, then back at her face, subdued once again. His mouth working despite his steady gaze.

Liz gives his knee what she intends to be a comforting pat, but which turns out closer to a gentle rub as her fingers linger, learning the feel of his kneecap.

Then she opens her door, preparing to depart.

"Uh, Lizzie?"

"Yes, Red?"

Dembe has stepped to the door and is holding it open, a worried expression on his face. She has one foot on the ground and the other still in the car when Red speaks again.

"I'm sure you remember that it was only my concern regarding your surroundings that caused me to purchase you an apartment? And then another, when you sold the first one?"

"Yes?" Her voice comes out a little sharper than she wanted; she's so weary, and she knows he's right, that she can't keep living in rundown motels. 

"I purchased this motel."

Liz pulls her foot back in the car and turns to face him.

"Is that why they completely retiled my bathroom last week?'

He gives her a sheepish little smile.

"Red!" she exclaims. She can't help smiling back because he looks so relieved. 

He's quick to sense his advantage.

"So won't you at least spend one night at the Audrey, before you decide?" he asks earnestly. Not touching her at all.

She can't deny that he's offering her a very graceful opportunity to change her mind.

"Yes, thank you, Red."

Dembe leans closer before shutting the door.

"OK to shut it down?" he asks Red.

Red waves one hand very casually. "Go right ahead," he responds. Dembe pulls a phone out of his jacket pocket.

As Liz watches through the windows in amazement, the motel sign goes out, and the lights in the office. And then the lights in every occupied room.

Variously dressed men and women stream into the parking lot, driving away until no cars at all remain except her own. A stout woman in a maid's uniform emerges from the unit Liz had been occupying, carrying her luggage, and loads it into her car, which she then backs out into position to follow their sedan. She didn't know he had a copy of her car key.

Liz turns back to Red.

"None of them were real people?"

He sets his hat back on his head, then gives a quick little shake of his head.

"You must understand, Lizzie, that this type of establishment typically attracts a very seedy clientele ..."

Dembe slides into the front seat.

"The Audrey, please, Dembe," she advises him. "No stops on the way."


	13. Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fragment, post S2 E16

Three days later, Liz picks up the conversation as if it never stopped

His car is flying along, Dembe at the wheel, so Red can't just walk away.

"Anything good we choose to do always includes self-interest. That's how morality, virtue, works."

She would reach out and set her hand on his knee, but he looks so bleak. So distant.

"I'm grateful, Red, I am."

"I don't want your gratitude," he snaps back at her, not meeting her eyes. There's a little pulse beating in the side of his neck. She would bet, if she looked him full in the face, that the corner of one eye is twitching.

"Then what do you want?" she asks him, angling her head and waiting. He looks out the side window, away from her, as if there were anything to see through the driving sheets of rain. A gray day, filled with missed phone calls and rescheduled appointments.

Red shrugs and doesn't answer.

"What do you really want?" she persists. The urge to touch him is stronger now. She folds her hands in her lap, rubs at her scar. She's getting that urge more frequently now, along with explicit, erotic dreams that embarrass her when she remembers them upon waking.

He shakes his head again, then turns his face towards her with a chuckle that somehow rings false.

"You almost make me believe I could say anything to you," he responds, his lips twisting.

"You can, Red," she assures him.

"Can is not the same as should," he retorts, looking a little sick as soon as the words emerge from his mouth.

Liz examines him for a moment. Elegantly dressed as ever, his vest is just a little tight, the fine lines at his eyes and mouth deeper, even his cleanly shaven face somewhat fuller.

He's heavier, weary, curiously defensive. 

"When I was a little girl I read a story about a man, a king, who made a terrible enemy."

She holds Red's eyes with her own as she speaks, still rubbing her scar. His hands are folded in his lap as well.

"He was afraid his castle wasn't enough to protect him, so he hired an architect to build an impenetrable, impregnable wall around it. And when it was done, he waited in his castle, but his enemy never came."

Red nods, still listening.

"So at last he decided to venture forth, and then he discovered that there was no gate or door or opening at all in that wall. The architect he had hired was his enemy."

Red blinks at her. He seems to be holding his breath.

"I'm not a fraud, Red. And neither are you."

Liz waits, but he's staring at her, seemingly mesmerized. She's going to have to be the one to cross the distance, step off that cliff, throw herself into that moving river. Say the words that can't be unsaid.

"I want to be on the inside of that impenetrable wall."

Red takes a sudden breath, and she allows her gaze to soften.

Her hopes, dreams, desires so clear as Liz waits for his response.


	14. Two Steps Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, Post S2 E16, AU, fragment, fluff

They're sitting side by side on a deep, cream velvet couch in front of a wide marble fireplace.

"His assistant? The one taking dictation? She was one of my people," asserts Red. "So anything you said to that judge, exists only in his mind. He'll have nothing concrete about me he could sell."

Liz shakes her head in wonder.

"You're always two steps ahead of us, aren't you, Red?"

He shrugs. 

"It was obvious when he threatened you. Eugene Ames was not a small man. You would not have been able to kill him the way Tom did."

Liz nods, remembering how difficult it had been to subdue the Deerhunter, a much smaller, weaker woman. Why hadn't that occurred to her?

She brushes her hair back from her face. She's so weary after the long day, but Red insisted on a debrief at his safe house. Leaving this luxurious haven of comfort and warmth for her shoddy motel room is going to be so unpleasant. Which she assumes is what he intended.

"No matter who doubts your integrity, Elizabeth, I will always have every confidence in you."

Red tilts his head, gives her an encouraging smile. So sweet that it starts prickles moving behind her eyes, the easy tears of exhaustion. Liz wants to throw her arms around him, press her face into the comforting warmth of his shoulder, smell cologne and whiskey and Cuban cigars instead the pervasive fear of today. Has she eaten anything at all? She can't even remember.

"Lizzie?"

She's folding in on herself where she sits, trying not to sob, trying to stay strong.

Cooper almost dying, Tom with that hateful tattoo, the scathing contempt of the judge.

The effort of suppressing her fear about the terrible things that would certainly happen to a former federal agent in prison.

Red reaches for her, but instead of pulling her against his shoulder, he lifts her legs and scoops her fully into his lap. Winds his arms around her so that she's cradled against his body like a child, her knees bent, her head resting over his heart, the wool of his vest rough against her cheek.

He presses firm kisses to the top of her head, punctuating each phrase.

"It's over now." 

"You're safe."

"It's all going to be all right."

She cries soundlessly against him for a long time. Feels herself going limp in the aftermath. But he doesn't release her, he just holds her against him, his kisses softer now.

"Good Lizzie."

"Brave Lizzie."

"Now sleep."

The fabric of his vest is soaked with her tears. Liz reaches up and unbuttons the first two buttons, snuggles as best she can against the clean, dry softness of his dress shirt. He smells so good that she takes in long deep breaths, feeling his hand moving to unbutton the remainder of his vest so she can slide her hand over the warm curve of his belly to his ribs. He pulls the vest over her face, shutting out the light. Matching her breaths to his steady heartbeat, she sleeps.


	15. The Only Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, short, sad

It was the only time she ever saw him cry. 

The blacklist was complete. Red's pardon was assured.

All that remained was for him to receive his paperwork, and walk away.

At her request, he stopped by her hotel room before he left. A private, elegant suite, suitable to her handsome salary as a consultant to the bureau.

"Was there something you needed before I depart, Lizzie?" he asks her, insouciant in his elegant suit, his fedora at a rakish angle. "I thought we already said our good-byes at the Post Office."

He told her to have a happy life, kissed her forehead. Shook hands all around. 

Aram hugged him without warning. He left shortly thereafter, his eyes suspiciously bright.

"Yes, Red. Won't you come in?"

He peers over her shoulder at the pleasant sitting room, the flickering fire. Shakes his head.

"No, my jet is waiting."

He's just standing there on her doorstep.

She tries again.

"Red, I don't want you to go."

His face softens into a smile.

"Lizzie, all good things must end, and you have your whole future before you now."

"I want you in my future."

She sounds like a spoiled child. But he's leaning back on his heels, offering her no opening, so visibly armored, so blandly avuncular.

"Call me in five years," he advises her in a tone of finality. 

"Five years?" She can't hold her face together at the thought, and through tear-filled eyes she watches him take a step back into the hallway, shaking his head very gently.

"Tell me about your life, tell me you're happy and fulfilled," he says softly. "You'll thank me then."

He gives her a little tip of his hat, a little tilt of his head.

Liz wants to grab him, kiss him senseless, cling to him. But she can't. Not in the face of that impersonal affection. Red just stands there, smiling faintly, as he can read every thought she's thinking, and has dismissed them all.

"No, please Red, no," is all she can manage, clinging to the door frame for support.

"You'll be just fine," he says, and then he gives her a firm nod, and he's in motion, striding away from her toward the private elevator, legs slightly apart as if he's striding the moving deck of a ship. Bound for foreign parts unknown.

***

It's only later that she pulls the elevator feeds, wanting that one last glimpse of him.

He sobs open-mouthed like a child, tears rolling unchecked down his face, all twenty-three floors to the ground.

Then he slips on his sunglasses, winds his scarf around his neck, and disappears into the world.


	16. The Other Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, sad. Companion to "The Only Time" but in a different universe.

Ressler resigned. Aram called in sick until they fired him.

Liz played the spy until the bitter end.

The FBI was under the full control of the cabal.

Liz knew it was time to act when Red admitted that Dembe was not on vacation; he had gone to cover more than two weeks ago.

"We need to leave, Red." 

Her tone is bitter, but she can't restrain a small smile at Red's preening in the lobby mirror as they enter his hotel.

"Slowly, Lizzie, there's always more to be learned."

He limps a little, his knee sore from his last encounter with Tom Keen. The cabal got Tom at a discount.

"I can't protect you any longer," she responds, following him into the elevator with a cautious glance behind her.

Red shrugs, his big shoulders unbowed, although the lines beneath his eyes are so dark now, and his hands shake with weariness late in the night.

"Perhaps one more?" he asks, letting her into his suite and bolting the door before setting his hat on the credenza in the entryway.

She shakes her head.

"I'm not going back. They'll arrest me when they take you, and it's in my records that water boarding broke me once."

She shudders.

He purses his lips, looks around the room as if searching for someone. She assumes he's missing Dembe; every so often she catches him indulging in sidelong looks, then a slow blink.

"Where are we going?" he asks her, raising one brow.

Liz frowns in confusion.

"What do you mean, we?"

He's giving her such a thoughtful look. As if she's forgotten something so obvious that he's just too polite to point it out.

"Red, I don't know where you're going, but I'm resigning from the FBI and moving home to Nebraska."

His brows draw together. "Nebraska?" 

He says the word as though he's never heard of the state.

"Yes. I have a job waiting for me."

"A job?" This too emerges in an incredulous tone.

Liz had better hurry this along, if she's going to retain her composure.

"Yes, an old boyfriend is a doctor at the VA hospital in Grand Island. I'll be doing one on one counseling with returning veterans."

His eyes search her face. She'd break if she hadn't practiced this conversation so many times. In the mirror, in front of her computer's camera. The first few times, she just stared at her own image and wept, without saying any of the necessary words.

Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, can slip back into the shadows once again. No news if he escapes the FBI once more.

But if Elizabeth Keen, an active agent, one assigned to his case, goes with him? They'll hunt her, hunt them both, to the very ends of the earth.

He has enough enemies already.

The cabal has all the power. She won't be their leverage, their excuse, to crush him.

"When are you leaving, Lizzie?" His tone is soft, as if he's humoring her. Just being patient.

"Tonight."

He looks momentarily stricken, his mask slipping once again. 

She shrugs, pulls her service weapon and her badge from inside her jacket, then piles them next to his hat. Adds a long white envelope with the FBI logo in the top left corner.

"My resignation letter." She taps it with one finger, stroked the embossed logo for just a moment. Gives him an encouraging smile. "You can leave one as well, if you want?"

Red steps toward her, but he's not between her and the door.

Her hand is on the knob when she feels his breath on her neck. His bare hands, placed so lightly on her shoulders.

Oh no.

"Lizzie, don't make me beg."

His deep voice is a warm whisper, still light with feigned amusement. This is it, the firing squad in a line, squaring her shoulders, pulling down the blindfold.

"Red, I'm done. There's a man waiting back home for me, a peaceful life. Maybe even children. Let me go."

The weight of his hands, lifting off her shoulders, leaving her bereft. The volleys of bullets, tearing through her.

She slides back the bolt, pulls the door open. Steps out into the hall before she turns.

His eyes are so wide, his skin is so gray that if she didn't know better she would assume he was going into shock. Those waves of bullets passed through her and into him.

"Goodbye, Red," she says firmly. "Look me up if you're ever in Nebraska."

That should have been "look us up," but she's losing her nerve as he begins to close the door, slowly, just his face showing at the opening.

As if he expects her to change her mind, push back into the suite, into his arms.

Liz turns and she walks away, back to the elevator, and it's like marching, it's like her dead body dragged in chains by the marching soldiers, the firing squad lowering their weapons, their work complete.

His door shuts behind her as she enters the elevator, not a slam, just a firm sound, the end of her world, and she curls in on herself as the elevator descends, wracked by a storm of weeping, almost screaming, and when she strides through the lobby with her swollen, murderous face still streaming with tears, the wealthy men and women fall away from her path like flies hovering above a corpse as it passes, no longer animate for all her apparent motion.


	17. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, short, response to S2 E17 and promo for E18

"You manipulate people, Red. And I'm done with you manipulating me."

Elizabeth Keen is striding back and forth in her hotel room, escalating past rage into some new, light-headed state.

He sits watching her, bare-headed, only his eyes moving. His hands so limp in his lap. Dembe has wisely retreated to the car.

"It's bad enough that I married a man who never loved me, who was planted in my life to pretend to be the perfect husband. But you knew, you knew exactly what it did to me to find that out!"

Red gives a little shrug, still so uncharacteristically silent.

She stops right in front of him, leans down so their eyes are momentarily on the same level.

"How could you do that to me? How could you hire Tom to come back and pretend to love me?!"

His shoulders are a little hunched, as if he's bracing for a blow. He spreads his hands slightly, just a flinch of his wrists.

"I thought if you believed he loved you, after all, that there was some truth in it ..."

"You don't know anything about my hopes and dreams and desires." 

She feels like she's screaming, she's so hurt and exasperated, and yet the words come out low and venomous, and Red winces and swallows but he just keeps looking at her.

As if he's storing up her image against some not so distant future where he'll have only memories.

"Damn it, Red, he kissed me, and I let him. What the hell were you thinking?"

His jaw firms, his eyes narrow.

"I did stop him once I learned he was improvising ..." he murmurs.

Liz slams both hands down on Red's parted knees.

"You call this improvising?" she hisses at him, then fastens her mouth to his.

Kisses him as punishment, as a reminder of Tom's kiss, because if he's leaving she may never have the chance to taste his mouth, know the softness of his lips.

He sits so still beneath her touch, only his mouth moving, kisses bitter and sweet, passionate and tender, redolent of long-restrained desire and aching regret. 

When finally she stops, she just leans her forehead against his for a moment, then closes her eyes.

"Never manipulate me like that again, Red," she whispers with finality. "Or we're done."

"Agreed." His voice is low, raw with feeling as she's never heard it before. 

It's enough.


	18. No Reason to Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, M, PWP, fluff. AU.

"We're not going to make it out of here, are we?"

Liz leans against one wall of the small cement cell, rubbing her sore wrist where she struggled with their captors.

Red shrugs. He's sitting on the single, metal framed bed on the opposite wall. 

"Our fate is uncertain, but there's no reason to despair."

Liz gazes around the bleak little space, the metal door, the metal toilet and sink combination, the lack of a window, then leans her head back against the wall. The cell is illumined by a single bulb in a metal fixture. 

They've been here at least five hours. That tells her that no one is in a hurry to get them to talk.

"This is clearly a government facility, which means there will be records," says Red.

"Our absence won't be missed for days," counters Liz. "Where were you taking me, anyway?"

Red gives another little shrug.

"It doesn't matter now."

He gives the thin mattress a little pat.

"Come and sit down?"

She shakes her head, shifting from one booted foot to the other. It's strange that they've been allowed to retain their own clothes, but perhaps this is just a holding cell. Perhaps they'll be separated soon.

Liz looks over at Red, who is smiling faintly, one palm still flat on the mattress beside him.

What if she never sees him again?

"Maybe for a little bit," she says, pushing off the wall and crossing to sit at his side.

They haven't been this close physically for weeks. Not since the time he crowded her in an elevator, leaving a crime scene, and her breath caught so hard in her throat at his nearness, his physical presence, that she gasped, and she knew that he heard her, saw her response in the mirrored back wall of the elevator. And he stood there for just a second, their gazes locked, her face flushed, before he stepped away and the moment passed.

She's been so careful since then. Red too has seemed cautious, just a few more little touches, a growing warmth in his gaze. 

That metal door could open at any time. 

She's been waiting for him to say something, make a move. Even a long, strange, elliptical story would have been enough. But he hasn't rejected her, either.

Liz knows all about rejection. Until Tom, her dating life was spectacularly unsuccessful. She scares or intimidates most men.

Raymond Reddington, on the other hand? Even a pen in the carotid hasn't scared him away. 

Liz looks down at his pale hand, so still on the mattress at her side. His hands look so ordinary, no hint of their extraordinary competence, whether it comes to assessing, repairing, creating order, or killing. She's wondered so often if those hands are as skilled at creating pleasure as they are pain and death.

"Lizzie?"

Red spreads his fingers a little wider, then turns his palm up when she doesn't respond.

Liz lays her hand in his, feels him fold his fingers around hers as he did so long ago. The gesture should be comforting, but her heart is pounding with the sick thuds that mean fear. And Liz can only respond to fear in one way - with action.

She turns toward Red, still holding his hand.

"Red, if we never get out of here, this may be the last time I see you..." Her voice is shaking, so she pauses to get control of it. He squeezes her hand, tilting his head, his eyes searching her face. 

"You want answers?" he asks softly, raising his brows as she shakes her head.

She doesn't know how to say the words, so she tugs at his hand, guides it to her lips. Kisses his fingers, one by one, as he breathes ever more heavily opposite her.

He looks so uncharacteristically anxious when their eyes meet once more. 

"Are you sure?" he whispers. There's hope in his eyes, his mouth is moving, and he's leaning toward her very, very slowly, as if drawn to her.

Liz nods.

Red raises his free hand and cradles her face. His hand is warm as he leans in to kiss her for the very first time. Tender kisses, as if he's still unsure of her response.

His restraint gives her courage. She reaches for the tiny buttons on his vest, the ones that have preoccupied her for so long. He takes her face in both hands, holding her, kissing her. Allowing her to unbutton his shirt, slide her hands beneath his undershirt for that first slide over skin and hair, feeling for his nipples, his collarbone, the curves of ribs and belly and then his back.

Red stiffens slightly as she explores the burn scars for the first time, then kisses her with more vehemence. His hands slide to her neck, lift the lapels of her jacket, pull at them.

She sits back and slips off her suit jacket, waits until he follows her lead. She reaches down for her heels, watches him untie his dress shoes.

They both line their shoes up neatly, toes facing out. His Navy background. She's nervous all at once. His elegant wool dress socks. Her cheap trouser hose.

"Do you want to lie down?" he asks her, capturing her hands and lifting them to his lips, kissing her fingers and then the inside of her wrists.

She never knew her wrists could be so sensitive. He ignores her scar, kissing the twisted tissue as if it was smooth skin.

Liz shakes her head.

"I want to get out of these ..."

She stands and strips off her slacks, collecting her hose on the way down. Now all she's wearing is a loose, plum-colored blouse and her underthings. Her bra and boy shorts are at least black, not some wild mismatched colors.

But they're not sophisticated. Not particularly feminine.

Red sits looking up at her with his mouth slightly open, as if she's taken his breath away.

"Oh, yes," he breathes out. "What an excellent idea."

She smiles at him with more confidence.

"Your turn."

Belt and trousers, then his socks. He's wearing boxers in a conservative pinstripe.

Another question, finally answered.

"Yes?" he asks her, returning her smile a little uncertainly.

She leans forward for another kiss. He runs his hands up and down the back of her legs as she kisses him, his eyes closed, those pale thick lashes so appealing that she kisses one closed eye, then the other. He waits, his eyes still closed, as she explores his face with her lips. His fingers tracing the soft skin behind her knees.

She's not going to tell him how much time she spent thinking about his body, concealed beneath those custom suits. How often she tried to imagine the texture of his skin, his body hair, his scars.

Ressler's seen the photos. But he hasn't said much, just that they're extensive. Beyond repair by plastic surgery.

"Your turn?" says Red.

Liz reaches back, unzips the zipper at the neck of her blouse, then pulls it over her head. She's still more covered as she would be in a bikini. Red's eyes dilate though, and his hands rise slowly up her thighs, tracing her hips and then the curves of her waist. Then he unbuttons his cuffs and lays his dress shirt aside.

She's seen his forearms before, but never his elbows. His white undershirt is tight, outlining the curves of his chest and belly. Liz leans down and kisses him some more, feeling the points of his elbows, the curve of his upper arms. 

"Oh Lizzie." 

He's cradling her face with both hands once again, kissing her jaw, her temples, even her nose.

She slides her fingers up under the sleeves of his shirt, feeling the indent in his arm where the chip was removed, then higher, the beginning of the scars on his back. She wants his shirt off, so she can see.

"Hang on."

Liz pulls back, takes a deep breath, then strips off her cotton bra. Right over her head, the stretchy exercise fabric makes no sound as she drops it to the bed. His quick intake of breath is reassuring. 

"Your turn." She's blushing, barely managing not to cover herself with her hands under the impact of his intent eyes. 

Red shrugs, colors a little. Such a faint change in the tint of his skin, one tiny twitch at the corner of his left eye.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me to keep it on?" he offers, his hands so steady at her waist. Not grabbing for her at all, just waiting as she struggles to subdue her blush.

She leans down so she can whisper.

"No."

He pulls the shirt over his head, then straightens his shoulders. His big body is all curves, his pale white skin lightly dusted with freckles and soft, straight hair in tones of gold and silver and copper. He bends forward for a moment, revealing the web of scars that completely covers his broad back.

Then Red looks up at her, clearly waiting for some response.

Liz pulls down her boy shorts and steps out of them. An unequivocal answer.

He leans forward and kisses her just once, the swipe of his tongue sending shivers through her at the promise of more, before sliding down his boxers and discarding them as well.

Then he lies back on the bed, his eyes on her face, as if he's suddenly unsure of himself, for all that his body visibly yearns for her touch. 

His mouth opens when she settles herself beside him, stroking him, caressing him as she leans on one elbow to watch his face, his responses until his breath is coming fast, his thighs trembling, and then she bends her head down and loves him with her tongue, the hot wet suction of her lips curled inwards until he starts holding his breath in little gasps.

Then she stops and rolls up to hands and knees, looming over him, settling herself down at last with a groan of pure pleasure as his hands reach for her before she begins to move. 

The sensations are exquisite as he yields to her, moves with her. Not clutching at her for his own release, but trusting her to find the way for them both. Every touch of his hands palpably for her pleasure as well as his own. 

He doesn't last long, but she's so close already and his fingers are so skillful. As she collapses onto his chest, Red holds her tight against him for a moment, then rolls them both sideways before drawing back enough to kiss her. 

He looks so happy, so completely relaxed.

She has to ask again.

"Red, where were you taking me?"

"Mmm?"

"When they captured us." 

In emphasis she presses a kiss to his jaw, then another. His skin smells and tastes so good. 

Red blinks lazily at her, still smiling as his eyes sharpen.

"A private island in the Seychelles."

"Tell me about it," she whispers. 

Cuddled close, between kisses and caresses, in the shared warmth of their new-found intimacy, Red and Liz swim in the crystalline ocean, make love beneath the sun and stars, and sleep in complete peace and security, safe in each others arms at last.

Whatever the future may bring.


	19. Hospital Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, post S2 E18

Dembe is furious. Liz can see that before he speaks, visibly steaming with his back against the far wall on the other side of Red's hospital bed.

"I know how much he needs, I know his exact tolerances and how much resistance he has built up already."

"I'm sorry, but doctor's orders won't allow any further medications to be given for at least two hours."

The nurse is equally obdurate, judging from the back, her head cocked at an angle, one white orthopedic shoe tapping the shiny linoleum floor.

"Then call another doctor..." Dembe begins.

"Nurse, is there a problem?" Liz breaks in crisply, flashing her FBI badge and ID card as she approaches.

The woman whirls, her angry face relaxing with relief.

"He's not tolerating the pain well, but there's nothing else I can give him..."

Liz takes in the scene with a glance - Red tossing on the bed, sweating, his lips tight with pain, pushing and pushing the button of the pain pump. He hasn't even acknowledged her presence.

The nurse follows her gaze.

"The pump has safety features built-in to prevent overdose," she says with a shrug, turning back to Dembe. "Now Mr. Zuma, I'm going to have to ask you to leave ..."

"This man was shot because he is a material witness in a very sensitive case involving national security," Liz informs her. "Who knows what he may say? I would prefer not to involve you - the case might take months and of course you'd have to be hidden away in protective custody."

The nurse looks horrified.

"Why don't you leave, and Mr. Zuma and I will stay with him?" Liz suggests. "If you can page the doctor and ask for a slight increase in his dosage, that would be so helpful."

She smiles, and after a moment, the nurse gives her a grudging smile in return.

"But no more threats. Not in my hospital." She shakes her finger at Dembe, who glowers at her, and then leaves the room.

"There's got to be a way to hack this thing," she says to Dembe reassuringly, leaning forward towards the pain pump as she hits Aram's number on her speed dial.

It's the work of a bare few minutes before the morphine is flowing once more.

Only then does she really look at Red.

He's taking short, shallow breaths as the pain drains from his face, his eyelashes fluttering. She's never seen as much of him as the hospital gown reveals. His bare arms, the muscle and sinew so limp at his sides. The base of his throat and his chest hair below, the soft curve of one pale shoulder.

Liz wants to touch him so badly, feel his warmth, the pulse of his blood. She was so terrified he wouldn't survive.

"He'll sleep, now," predicts Dembe, who has seated himself in the only chair in the small room. "Thank you, Elizabeth."

Gingerly, Liz seats herself on the edge of the hospital bed next to Red's feet. He shifts a little at the touch, blinks, then opens his eyes, squinting down the bed at her.

"Lizzie?"

"I'm here, Red. You're going to be fine," she tells him, daring to reach out and lay her hand on his ankle through the thin hospital covers. 

His eyes slant towards Dembe, who gives him a smile and a nod. Red looks back at her, blinking, clearly fighting sleep.

"Will you stay?" he asks her, his brows rising hopefully. She's never seen him so open, never heard him make such an uncomplicated request.

"For as long as you want me, Red," Liz responds, gently rubbing his lower leg as he smiles so sweetly back at her. As if somehow through the morphine he heard her answer for what she knows it to be; a declaration of love.


	20. So Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzington, G, fluff

"There are so many of them," Dembe marvels. He's usually almost monosyllabic, but today he keeps calling out their names, asking questions, turning to Red and Liz again and again for suggestions on how to proceed.

Children. So many children.

This boarding school, like all their facilities, serves both orphans and entire families of children from the local community.

South America. Africa. India. Myanmar.

Turning to philanthropy once the blacklist was complete was a natural cause of action for both Red and Liz.

Dembe directs their global efforts, but his favorite part of the job is the opening of a new school like this one.

Within weeks these children will be reading, eating well-rounded meals, playing instead of working.

Liz laughed so happily when the institutional spread of an origami fedora pattern became clear.

Both children and staff all want their paper hats to resemble Red's customary headgear. As Red and Liz enter each school, his hands reach out constantly, patting their heads, giving them little strokes of encouragement. After an early concern for his attire, Red has finally progressed to offering brief embraces, kisses on their grubby little cheeks.

Just as Liz hugs and kisses them. She doesn't want children of her own. Dembe and Red are her family now.

And more than ten thousand youngsters, around the globe.

"How far are we from your childhood home?" Liz asks Dembe, turning her head to whisper quietly in his ear.

He blinks gratefully at her.

"Less than two kilometers," he responds. 

Red looks over, a giggling child balanced on each hip.

"Is it true that we have no more colored chalk?" he asks in a shocked, rhetorical tone.

Dembe reaches over into one of the deep plastic crates and tosses a packet of drawing materials to Red. 

Liz watches fondly as Red begins instructing a growing crowd of children in the art of careful observation.

"You can't draw what you haven't seen," he informs them earnestly, crouching down on one knee as he watches one child after another drawing scenes from memory on the chalk board paint that covers the entry wall of the school.

A tall, slim boy draws a pink heart in chalk on the board, then quickly sketches Red's profile as he turns to gaze at Liz below it.

"Yes," Red says, giving the boy a quick hug. "Yes, that's entirely correct." 

And as Liz meets his eyes she can't believe she's so lucky, to be living safely and happily in the world of joy they have created together.

He said he would make her famous. She never expected it would be for the good they could do together. The Nobel Prize.

The next goal, beckoning on the horizon, that Dembe and his staff may someday achieve.

No child hungry, no children uneducated, no child unloved.


End file.
